✏ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬.

𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞

Life’s delights exhibit no limits for the voracious joy that stings his nerves and pins his lips into a wide grin. Any cumbersome worries and fears were engulfed in the blistering sunrise that sublimes the winning country, in it's mellow light dawns upon them a new era. An ethos for liberty and freedom, one free of tyranny. In their promised land were their chains of totalitarianism unshackled and the celestial beings above casts a glorious spotlight upon their new land where though torn and battered black and blue from War, humbly resides with it's remaining flora and rough terrain.

Bread and honey are promised in the afterglow of victory. The scenery is like a well-crafted reverie in the most vivid of daydreamers. Tommy is taken aback by the tranquility that juxtaposes their earlier contention, the yelling and deafening explosions that seemed to have no end, but now deer frolick, and birds warble a long forgotten but awfully familiar song. There are crevices that puncture the lush green grass, but the face of L'manberg is barely disfigured, reminding them that there is still hope for their damaged land.

A fitting sight for their new beginnings.

In destruction, you find unwavering hope. Wilbur, his brother, holds the decree of Independance with pride, the stars in his eyes and the responsibility of a new nation on his shoulders. Tubbo, his right hand man and a caring companion, stands beside him with rosy red cheeks and a kind smile, gazing upon the swaths of redwood trees. Fundy, his comrade, stares blankly off onto the lake of the great nation, wearing his crayon uniform like a badge of honour. And Tommy? He's overcomed with an unprecedented feeling of accomplishment. Though his hands may be empty, he's secured what matters most - his country.

In his clutches lay budding hope. A brimming sensation of elation left over from still pulsing adrenaline throttles him, while the morning breeze combs through his tousled hair. Nothing feels real. 

From atop the Camravan, he breathes in the fresh air of the mountains and it's aftertaste is a distinguishable taste of victory. Freedom tastes absolutely divine.

With the enemies' backs to the rising sun, Tommy heartily salutes the retreating forces, and with a triumphant grin, bellows with his full chest.

"Jesus fucking christ!- Tommy, oh my god!"

Tommy blinks. The voice is familiar - somewhat posh like Wilbur's, but lacks the honied baritone he possesses; a rough mix of Wilbur and Fundy - but isn't any of his men or his enemies. Hell, it's not even his other brothers, Phil or Techno.

"Tommy, are you okay, dude? Did you have a nightmare or something?"

It's another voice — cadence screams American. Tommy knows their name; it's at the tip of his tongue, but comes out as unintelligible stammers.

Like a magic spell, Tommy feels weary down to his very joints. One minute he's feeling like he's got his world pressed down under his thumb, and the next small and worn down to the bone.

The vividness of the sea of redwood trees and soon-blossoming flowers that bestrown the remaining land that L'manberg has rings through his mind and lingers like a festering sore. It can't not be real. The discs. The friendships. The betrayal. Everything he's fucking worked for can't not be real.

“No–! I literally just secured independence for L'manberg from that green bastard! We're free men!”

He snarls with vicious bitterness and desperation Tommy had no idea his juvenile voice could encapsulate, or even knew he was feeling. It chokes him, indignance builds up in his throat that leaves behind the slick taste of denial and distress.

The two others are confused, but seeing his heartbroken face, are panicked. “Deo, did you drug my little brother's drink–”

“Woah, woah, woah! Wisp, look, I dun' know what the hell happened with Tommy, but whatever it is, that isn't 'cause of me. Please put down that scissor. I swear to god it's not me.”

Oh yeah. That's their names.

Wisp, his actual older brother, and Deo, his actual right hand man.

It takes time for Tommy to clock that fact in. Reality sets in like a writhing in a pit full of nettles - he’s not sixteen, he’s fifteen, and it’s not the thirty-first of October in 2020 but 2019. It’s Halloween and Wisp and Deo were going to take him out trick or treating around the neighbourhood.

Tommy has lived with them from the moment he'd been conceived, but he doesn’t recognize them beyond faded memories and polaroid pictures. Even the living room he’d seen for his waking years seems wrong - there isn’t a war bunker to crawl into, no benches, no jukeboxes, and no tyranny - just these brick walls and a callous neighbourhood.

A fireplace crackles to his left, and the streetlights scintillate through drawn mint curtains; It’s home, but it’s not quite that. 

Tommy shakes his head. That can't be right.

With anger grows his facetious denial, underneath that lays a subconscious realisation that stalks the alcoves of his mind. It can't sit still, waiting impatiently.

“What-? Guys, stop it! I'm perfectly fine! You guys are the fuckin' insane ones here, alright? I'm just– What was I doing again?”

Deo scratches his cheek. “Err. Securing independence for.. L'manberg?”

“Yeah. Wilbur just wrote up the decree and stuff and we were just shitting on Clay–”

Wisp interjects with his classic wit. “Tommy, did you eat anything from the floor or from a stranger?”

“No? Dude, where's Wilbur? Fundy? I was just standing beside them–”

The realisation hits him, and searing pain follows.

“Oh. That was a part of the dream. That I had.”

Silence follows with no one knowing more than the other on what to say or how to approach this predicament. Tommy himself doesn't even know what he wants now. Should he mourn over a dream? That's ludicrous. But did it fucking hurt knowing that was all a dream? Absolutely.

The real absurdity was how a promising life had been taken from him.

“Now that you're done with that episode, could you help stitch up your costume?”

Tommy feigned indifference. “Right, right. Jesus, I'm never going to sleep again.”

“What's the dream about?”

“I was in this land, yeah, and it was ruled over by Clay – you know him. Sits at the back of class being all weird. In my dream, I was a part of the Pandel family, and I was in Clay's kingdom.”

It dawns upon him how ironic that is.

Family of Techno, Wilbur and Phil – cared for with unprecedented adoration and love. The bullying wasn't real, their insults didn't sting and they weren't ignoring him because they didn't care for him. They wore their pride for him on their sleeves; Phil through his tender guidance of Tommy, Wilbur dragging him alongside into any mischief possible, and Techno through his quiet worry for the blonde. They stood beside him.

That loving image of theirs ripples, and thorns adorn it’s rose tinted lens. Now the memories felt cold. Or, more specifically, his dream memories.

Funny thing was that they aren't even fucking friends in the waking world, and the funniest bit yet was that they actually disliked Tommy. And he's grown a gratuitous attachment to people who won't even spare him a glance.

That stings. Terribly.

Wisp takes note of his new gloomy expression and rests a hand on his knee, anchoring Tommy to his most present reality. “Tommy, are you good? Like genuinely?”

A faltering smile twitches at the corner of his lips. At least he still has people who care for him.

“Yeah. I'm fine, dude! Don't worry about it!” Tommy lies.

“So anyways, Clay didn't allow us to do stuff, so we started a revolution and created our own nation called L'Manberg, and they waged war on us and we almost lost, but we won in the end cause I sacrificed my discs for the independence of L'Manberg.”

Deo raises an eyebrow. “Your dreams are so weird. Discs? That sounds so stupid.”

“Hey, they meant a lot to me, dipshit!”